


every empty space

by thessalonike (starblessed)



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV 2020)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Child Loss, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Luke Patterson Has ADHD (Julie and The Phantoms), Mother-Son Relationship, Motherhood, Parent-Child Relationship, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29538285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/thessalonike
Summary: Loving Luke was never easy.Losing him was unbearable.(Emily and Luke, from beginning to end.)
Relationships: Emily Patterson & Luke Patterson & Mitch Patterson (Julie and The Phantoms), Emily Patterson & Luke Patterson (Julie and The Phantoms)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	every empty space

**Author's Note:**

> i genuinely didn't mean to write this piece, because i was like, "it's been done before, by better writers than me, the muse just isn't there ---"
> 
> then i made the mistake of streaming unsaid emily before bed, and this freaking thing wrote itself at 2am.

Raising Luke was never easy, even for a moment… but in the beginning, it was a dream come true.

Emily never liked the word “miracle”. She didn’t believe in them, for starters… and it seemed like such a cliché, a tiny word for something too remarkable to define. Babies weren’t miracles. _Luke_ wasn’t. From the moment he entered the world, announcing himself with the most powerful set of lungs the doctor ever heard, he was perfectly human, and perfectly hers.

They’d almost given up on having children. After a decade of failure and a handful of tragedies, it seemed like it wasn't in their cards. Mitch comforted her on her darkest days, always declaring they’d be fine, just the two of them. Emily knew her husband too well to imagine he was lying; and he knew her too well to believe her when she agreed. There was an emptiness in their home. Each year, it grew more and more prominent, the silence ever louder. Emily adopted a dog; she played records constantly, and sang while doing the dishes; Mitch always had stories from work, and sometimes talked faster than she could keep up. They tried everything to fill the void, but nothing did the trick.

Not until Luke.

“I’ve never known a baby who screamed so loud,” Mitch would tell the family, glowing with pride as he bounced his son against his chest. “Or so often!”

Luke cried for bottles, wailed for kisses, bellowed until someone sang him a lullaby. From the beginning, Luke always knew what he wanted… and never gave up until he got it. _They were the same that way,_ Emily often thought… and it filled her with warmth, knowing a part of her (even the most bullheaded part) was shared with her boy.

 _Her boy._ The little tot with the bright eyes, who slowly grew into clumsy steps, scraped knees and sticky hands, the world’s loudest laughter. From the moment Luke learned to walk, he ran. Chasing the dog quickly became his favorite hobby, and climbing on the furniture nearly scared Emily to death more than once. Of course, he got into everything — if a cabinet was within reach, he’d have it open in a minute, all of the contents spilled across the ground. Sometimes, Emily would just resign herself, sitting by with a magazine while Luke turned their kitchen into a Tupperware jungle. He was a good boy; so long as she made it a game, he’d clean up his messes with the same enthusiasm that he made them. 

It was always easier when she put one of the records on. Music seemed to calm Luke down, and help him focus. Sometimes, she’d lift him in her arms, and they’d dance together, swaying around the living room to whatever song was on — ABBA or Carly Simon, Cat Stevens or Elvis. The song never mattered, really. Luke loved them all; sometimes, he’d stare at the record player for what felt like ages, simply entranced by it. That was the only time her boy ever held still.

Emily delayed sending him to pre-school for a year, because she couldn’t stand to part with him. As soon as school began, his absence rang louder than ever. The house wasn’t the same, even for a few hours, without Luke and all the life he brought with him. He was constantly running around, jumping on the furniture, with energy to spare at all hours. He lived in his Superman cape; if allowed, he would exist solely on cookies and Teddy Grahams cereal. Picking up after him was a constant job — he shed clothes wherever he went, never liking too many layers — and keeping up with his mile-a-minute stories felt like running a marathon sometimes. Luke told them with such enthusiasm, though, bouncing around the kitchen while Emily cooked dinner, that she could never brush him aside. To him, everything was “the coolest thing ever”, and each day brought something wonderful with it.

Emily was always grateful for the glimpses of the world she got through her son’s eyes. Luke’s world was a beautiful place.

On Friday nights, little Reggie Peters would stay over. On Saturday mornings, the two bounced in front of the TV in their superhero pajamas, cheering along with the Saturday morning cartoons. On Sundays, Luke cleaned his room, under Emily’s supervision; he tried his best to keep it that way, but within a day, the floor would be crowded with toys and action figures once more. He really couldn’t help it.

Luke sang when he was happy. He sang when he was sad. He would play music at all hours of the day, if only they’d let him, and while doing chores he’d make up songs to pass the time. Luke always had a song in his head, and could never help letting it out.

They still danced in the living room, but now Luke had favorites. Michael Jackson, Bon Jovi — music Emily wouldn’t listen to herself, but played whenever she wanted to see Luke smile. He’d take her hands and they’d spin together, reeling into the furniture and stumbling over the rug. She taught him the jitterbug and jive; he taught her to bounce around until her lungs deflated like helium balloons, and they both collapsed in a heap on the couch. 

Once, they slow-danced, him standing on her feet as she held him. His eyes were warm like melted butterscotch, and his smile was the same as her own. Holding him close, Emily found she never wanted to let him go.

With boys, of course, it’s never that easy. They go, whether you want them to or not. And they grow like weeds, good gracious… one moment, he was barely as tall as the kitchen counter, and suddenly _she_ had to look up at _him_.

By the time Luke entered middle school, he was struggling to find his feet. All that _energy_ was the problem. He was too restless, never able to rein in the motion in his limbs. Occasional calls from the principal soon became weekly visits. He couldn’t control himself in class, the teachers declared. He was too loud, too disruptive, too mischievous. If he didn’t learn to restrain himself, there would be no place for him at their school.

“Why can’t you just behave, Luke?” she spat out once — one of those fits of frustration she always regretted moments later.

Luke stared back at her, looking very small with his too-long hair and too-big flannel, and replied, “I don’t know.”

No, raising Luke was never easy.

“He needs some sort of outlet. A distraction,” Mitch declared, and Emily agreed. The question was, _what?_

For all his energy, sports would never be his niche. (He and Reggie decided to take up surfing one day, and Luke came back hours later, dripping like a drowned sea rat, half his body covered in bruises. After that, he stayed away from surf boards, and most athletics in between.) Ordinary hobbies like yearbook and science club didn’t suit him; he had no interest in robots or comic books, was bored by gardening, and incensed by the school choir.

Sitting in the kitchen one night, listening to Luke hum as he worked on his homework, it came to her. 

They bought him the guitar for his eleventh birthday. Mitch knew enough to teach him the basics… and from there, he never needed any lessons. Luke carried that guitar with him everywhere, despite it being half his size. Gradually, the calls from school tapered off. He began to bring home friends besides Reggie — a quiet older boy named Bobby, who rarely smiled but always minded his manners — and suddenly, music was _everywhere._

The house was never quiet anymore. Every waking moment was filled with melody; Luke practiced in his room, wrote songs faster than Emily could comprehend and performed them for his eager audience of two. Almost every night brought a new show with it. Luke, she couldn’t help noticing, shone in front of an audience; he played to the “fans” with smiles and enthusiasm, winking at her at the end of each song. Emily always gave him a standing ovation, just to see him glow with pleasure.

Their house filled up with mixtapes, cassettes discarded or set aside; Luke's walkman became as constant a companion as his guitar. He loved loud bands, barely music at all, but at least he wasn't blasting it all through the night.

Emily never _understood_ the music… but her son had an outlet, finally, and it carried him through middle school and beyond. He had talent, too. That much was undeniable… though Emily never knew quite what to do with it.

Luke’s newest friend, Alex, always took off his hats indoors, and called her “ma’am” whenever he visited. He had constant nervous energy, always fiddling with whatever was in his hands — _“he’s a drummer, Ma, he can’t help it,”_ Luke explained — but something about him made Emily’s heart warm in her chest. When Luke threw an arm around his shoulders, Alex's eyes widened, as if he couldn't believe it; he craved the contact her son always gave so casually.

Emily couldn’t help noticing how Alex always kept his head down around adults, always proper and respectful… the same way Reggie often had dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes, and flinched at raised voices, even on TV. 

They weren’t her children. She could do very little for them… but she always kept Alex’s favorite snack bars in the cabinet, and spoke softly to Reggie whenever they visited. Luke noticed, too — another thing they had in common — and when he’d hug her on nights after his friends stopped by, it was always a little tighter, always lasting a bit longer.

“I’m lucky to have you,” he said one day, unprompted. Emily glanced over her shoulder; when she raised her eyebrows, he just flashed that _grin_ , and she had to turn away to hide a chuckle. 

If he focused on homework less and worked on his songs more, she pretended not to notice. If he spent long hours at Bobby’s house, or “hanging with the guys”, she didn’t question it. She trusted him.

It never occurred to her that there was more to Luke than met the eye... that her son had secrets he kept close to his chest, things he didn’t tell her.

The Luke she knew was an open book. Still the little boy who cried into her shoulder when he sprained his ankle, and giggled whenever he tried to tell a lie. Emily Patterson _knew_ her son, and was always grateful for that.

“Visit the Seashell Club tomorrow night,” one of her coworkers told her, meaning heavy in her voice.

Emily went, and realized she didn’t know her son at all.

Her little boy, in a band — wearing t-shirts that left nothing to the imagination, jumping up and down and screaming into a microphone with that powerful set of lungs. Her little boy, standing on a stage with his closest friends, playing songs he first performed in their living room… and when he took his bow, the audience stood for him, too.

Emily should have been proud.

Decades later, she’d still think, _I should have just been proud of him._

What hurt the most — the fact that he was neglecting schoolwork for this? That he’d been _lying_ to her for months about what he was doing and why — all to keep a secret like this? If he’d just told her, if he’d just _been honest_ with them —

Well. Honestly, they’d probably have disapproved anyways.

“A band, Luke? You’re fifteen years old!”

“What about school? The principal says you’ve been skipping classes. For practice?”

“What do I need school for?” Luke shouted back, facing them down across the kitchen counter. “Music’s more important than algebra!”

“How do you expect to have a career when —“

“I don’t _want_ a career!” he said, and shocked them to their core. Luke was always a dreamer. An astronaut, a firefighter, a superhero — never realistic, but he _always_ had dreams. He always planned to be someone, and his parents believed he’d get there eventually.

How could he abandon all that now?

Except he hadn’t, apparently; because his eyes were aglow and his face was aflame when he hollered back at them, “We’re gonna be famous!”

That’s where it all started.

Or, where it ended, really.

Raising Luke was never easy… but the worst feeling, she thought at the time, was realizing he didn’t need her at all anymore. 

Suddenly, their lives consisted of empty spaces, lost time and the rough patches in between. Luke returned home at impossible hours of the night; he slept in the next morning without a care for his classes, and his academic record went from _alright_ to _worse_. When he began skipping school, the arguments started in earnest. Some nights, he never came home at all.

She’d blame herself later, when all was said and done. Why start so many fights — why carry them on, shouting through the house? Why the constant back-and-forth, fireworks exploding in each others’ faces? They both had tempers — another thing they shared — and up against each other, they were live wires ready to ignite.

Emily blamed the band. They never fought like this before the band; Luke never acted like this, before. (Or maybe he always had, and she just never knew her son at all.)

He blamed her. She never supported him, he said, never believed in him; his dreams were only hobbies to her. He’d never be the person she wanted him to be. (All she wanted was for him to be successful, be _happy.)_

Days passed without speaking to each other, sometimes. It was easier than the fights. They could barely meet each others’ eyes over dinner. Luke didn't tell them about his days anymore; day by day, he became more of a stranger. Her heart broke whenever he pulled away from them instead of reaching out, as was always his way.

He just slipped further, and further, until he was gone.

They lost him at Christmastime. One argument was all it took — not even their worst, not even their angriest. Just _one too far._ He spat venom at her, and Emily uttered the words she could never take back.

“You'll never ‘chase your dreams’ under my roof!”

Luke rode off into the night, and never came back.

Suddenly, the house was quiet once more.

She sang to herself, sometimes. She still played those records — the ones they used to dance to, the ones he loved. Mitch filled the silence at the dinner table, but it was never enough, when one place remained empty. Sometimes, she’d hear a noise outside, and think, _maybe…_ or the doorbell would ring, and her heart would lurch, until she opened it to just another package delivery.

The wounds lay open, ever bleeding. As days turned into weeks, and weeks to months, the sting didn't fade. 

She never gave up hope, even then… she’d never give up on her boy. Luke could return to school, retake junior year, graduate… and then, if he really wanted the band, he could _have_ the damned band. If he needed to learn his lesson, he could learn it the hard way… or if he wanted to prove them both wrong, he was welcome to.

He just had to come back.

Come back to them.

Come back to her.

He came back in a coffin.

_(When he was six years old, running around the house playing Indiana Jones with his lasso and hat, Luke’s game cut short with a loud crash. Emily, with the instinct of all mothers, froze for half a second before sprinting. She found Luke on the living room floor, in a pile of broken porcelain. Her favorite angel figurine — once her grandmother’s, passed down for generations — lay shattered._

_Luke looked up slowly to meet her gaze. All the sugar-sweetness, all that puppy-eyed charm, was gone. His wide eyes brimmed with tears; the shame shadowing his young face made him look so much older, so much more haunted. Slowly, he uncurled his hands, revealing the angel's broken wings cutting into his palms._

_"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."_

_Despite her own aching heart, Emily lowered herself to the ground, and held him tighter than ever.)_

She remembered that angel figurine in the awful weeks which followed. Shattering didn't happen all at once; from the moment the police cars pulled up to their doorstep, Emily was broken, but fragment by fragment, she fell to pieces. What took the biggest piece from her? Was it the blue light shining through their windows? Was it seeing Luke laid out on a metal slab, alongside two equally familiar, equally young bodies? Was it her son at his own funeral — his hair combed to perfection, dressed in a suit he would have despised — lifeless as he was lowered into the ground?

(Luke was never still. He was always in motion, vibrant, _alive —)_

Maybe it was the silence afterwards. Maybe that’s what broke her the most.

After all, the silence never ended.

She didn’t sing anymore. Sometimes, a flicker of song on the radio would sound eerily familiar; she'd switch it off just as quickly, and take refuge in the quiet once more. After a while, it stopped being a prison; it became safe. The only safe place in the world, when music could destroy a family, and hot dogs could tear three healthy young boys apart. The only thing that made sense, when she was no longer a mother... when life was suddenly empty.

Emily Patterson closed her ears, and lived with the memories, and with the silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [reggieshairflip](https://reggieshairflip.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
